Reactions
by DefineNormalitee
Summary: Sherlock always said you could tell anything about a person just by their reactions to a single phrase - "he's dead". A compilation of reactions to Sherlock's "death".
1. Reaction One: Mrs Hudson

Sherlock once said that habit makes the world go round. It's true, she thinks, in a way; Sherlock made a habit of being clever and showing off and making messes and being amazing and that made his world go round. She makes a habit of fussing and trying to help her poor boys to survive one another and that makes her world go round - spin like a top some times, she thinks, but on it goes nonetheless.

John has gotten into the habit of hoping.

"John?" she hovers tentatively on the threshold, hand just a centimeter from the doorknob and one foot already turning back down the way she'd come. If Sherlock had seen that, he'd have known. He'd have known she didn't want to go back in. She defiantly turns the rogue foot towards the door. "John, dear? You in?"

"Come and have a look at this."

She can't help it. She can't help it, but she hates herself for it when she sighs disappointedly, knowing now that John Watson is inside 221B Baker Street, waiting expectantly for her to enter. She thinks distractedly of the cup of tea, freshly brewed and waiting downstairs, that now will not be drunk. She thinks of the hour - maybe two - that she will now spend with John, trying to rescue him from the bottomless, inescapable pit that is his hope that his best friend might still be alive. She wants to turn around but he knows she's there now, so she bustles in like she always does, muttering under her breath about the mess but the only complaints she makes are halfhearted because John - the military man, precise, neat - doesn't make mess. It's like he's... broken. "What is it, dear?"

"Look at this." He's pointing, impatient now, at the article on the screen. She picks her way daintily through the carpet of old newspapers, Sherlock's case files and the empty cigarette cartons that signify a new, more distasteful habit of John's. Having traversed the length of the room she glances at the screen and her heart sinks.

"John, dear, I don't think-"

"Robert Brook, his first case," John announces proudly. He has bags under his eyes and his teeth are beginning to yellow from the endless cups of coffee and the chain smoking which he claims help him to concentrate. "Moriarty must have known. He's using it as an allias."

Some nights, it's "look at this, I found a kind of IV bag that explodes on impact, he must have used it to make it look like there was blood on the pavement" or "if they didn't let me see the body then it must have been a fake, mustn't it? They would have let me see it if he was really dead" but whatever it is, he never - never - says Sherlock's name.

She glances into his eyes sometimes and sees exactly what she knew she would - the glimmer of hope that's lurking in there, some nights clouded by doubt and other nights wild and bubbling to the surface like a pot that's going to boil over. She sees the unbending thought process that links Sherlock with immortality and thinks - still, even now, after his funeral - that he was never wrong, infallible. She's not as observational as Sherlock was, she knows that, but when she sees that in his eyes she wishes that she lacked any prowess in the area at all.

Because every time she sees it, she's reminded of the way that Sherlock never could.

**AN - first of all, how AWESOME was last night's episode? I cried. Twice. And then I stayed up too late writing this when I should have been prepping for my exam today (it was awful, thanks for asking). Hope to update with a couple more reactions soon - Lestrade's, John's, maybe Mycroft's - anyone else you can think of, let me know. Ciao!**


	2. Reaction Two: John Watson

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross - philosopher, psychologist and, accroding to Sherlock, quite the nymphomaniac (although how he knew that and why that made Mycroft turn a deep shade of burgundy was beyond John) - had come up with something that Sherlock was annoyingly fond of quoting and scoffing at whenever they had to deal with another grief-stricken housewife or seemingly disbelieving son (who, incientally, had been hiding the murder weapon under his pillow the whole time): the five stages of grief.

First, Sherlock would say, glancing pointedly at the nearest blank looking wife/husband/mistress/personal whistler (now there was a case John never, ever wanted to even so much as think about again), comes denial.

_I don't believe he's dead._

Next, anger (put down that knife, Mrs Axford, I'm a detective, not a police constable. What's the difference? Well for starters, _I'm _not expendable. Oh and by the way, if you really want to hurt a man you aim _here, _not _here_).

_I'm going to kill him if he carries on being dead, you mark my words._

Bargaining.

_Maybe he's just pretending to be dead so that he can test out this stupid stages of grief theory._

Depression.

_Where are you, Sherlock? ...I miss you._

Acceptance.

_Fine, Sherlock. If this is your game, I'm just going to go ahead and wait it out, and I will beat you. ...this time._

John's therapist thinks he's still in stage one. Not content with hearing him aknowledge (her word, not his) Sherlock's death, she has him recite over and over the conversation with Sherlock before he jumped (or didn't jump, John adds defiantly - in his head, now, after the first time he let that theory slip resulted in four hours of meetings with people who were "in the same boat" willing to share their tears - every last one, it seemed, and by god these people could produce tears - with him). Now, he spends their sessions nodding and going "mm" while she prattles on about moving on and moving out and moving upwards (a phrase John suspected she invented and was highly proud of, for she took any opportunity to repeat it at him). He just listens and he nods but that doesn't mean he _agrees_. Because she's wrong. He's not in denial. Denial - he looked it up - means "the refusal to acknowledge certain truths". This is where her theory falls down; John's not in denial, because _Sherlock isn't dead_. It isn't true. Mrs Hudson's flowers, Lestrade's black tie, the Minister's false words of sympathy - they're the ones in denial.

In John's mind, he has skipped ahead to the only stage of grief he will be dealing with - acceptance.

_I believe in you, Sherlock._

_I will wait for you._

**AN - hey guys, thank you all so much for the review (wish I could add an s onto that) and the story alerts (there it is)! Means a lot to know that someone's actually reading/enjoying/passing the time with this as I haven't written in aaaages and it's exactly what I needed to get back into the swing of updating regularly. Reviews help. A lot. (Hint hint). **

**Hope you enjoyed, and again any ideas about whose perspective I should write from should be left in a review. Or if you can't think of any, just tell me how awesome I am. (DXRULES103, you made my day).**

**Ciao!**


	3. Reaction Three: Kitty

Kitty peers into the full-length mirror on the landing, wincing as her fingertips brush the ring of bruises around her upper forerm. She pictures the headline - Fake Detective's Sidekick Manhandles Reporter - but then she remembers the look on the mourner's faces as John Watson escorted her none too gently out of Holmes' funeral, and she casts the idea as far as she can away in shame.

Shame. It'a not an emotion she tries to associate herself with on a day to dat basis, smothering it in ambition and short skirts (having calculated that the two go hand in hand). She'd felt it, of course, but it hadn't mattered. Not if she won. And she always won.

So why did it matter now?

Unbidden, John Watson's stoically blank face appears in the forefront of her mind. She winces and realises her hand is clenched around the ugly blotches on her arm, squeezing - she pries the hand away, banishes the face to the back of her mind. Upon examining that particular graveyard, she realises it's not as quiest as she thought it should be - several of the nailed down coffins rattle. A woman cries. A man curses, threatens her. And all the while, John Watson's blank stare drills into her mind, and that buried emotion starts to claw at her insides.

She dreams about him.

Sherlock Holmes, that is - she dreams, sometimes, that she's watching him jump, and when his body hits the ground - _thud - _it unfurls into a hundred copies of The Sun, with her own smug face glaring up from every page. Other nights she's on the roof with him, and her hands are on his back. She can't help it, it's her job, she can't stop and then he's gone, and John Watson's blank face peers up at her from below.

Sometimes, she wakes up with that memory in her mind - the one where she's opened the church door and stepped inside, all in black, and for a moment before she is unceremoniously thrust outside again she takes a look at their faces. Blank. Lost.

She takes a look at their faces, and for a moment she knows exactly why the shame matters now.

**Hey guys! Sorry it took aaages - exams (ugh). As always let me know what you think and if you've got any ideas for the next drabble!**


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